


a kind of love/a kind of lustmord

by orchid_spiral



Category: Professional Wrestling, Progress Wrestling
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Entropy, Multi, Murder, Stalking, Surveillance, Swearing, Threesomes, mutilation of a corpse, schemes, tags prone to change as necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 14:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15843357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid_spiral/pseuds/orchid_spiral
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures, in more ways than one.





	a kind of love/a kind of lustmord

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck writer's block, seriously. It took me nearly a goddamn year to finish this stupid fic. Entropy broke up before I could get this done, that's how bad the writer's block got. Anyway, this was inspired by a friend of mine joking that 'Haskins, Havoc and Haskins' sounded like a law firm that double as hitmen, and it kind of snowballed from there. For the record, MI5 as portrayed in this fic is a figment of my imagination and not meant to be representative of real life. I just really fucking love Entropy, and I really wanted there to be some fic of them, so here we are. The title is from "Breath Control" by Recoil. Hope you all like it, and thank you for reading.

Then:

The problem with necessity, the buyer thinks, is that it demands prices that are just too damn high. Most people say that it is the mother of invention, but sometimes invention alone doesn’t work, no matter how creative- or desperate- you get. Sometimes necessity demands more… concrete actions. The kind that require more resources than can be found alone.  
  
And that’s why he’s sitting in an upscale restaurant, surrounded by bankers and lawyers and accountants and stockbrokers in formal clothes, all of them either conversing about work, or gossiping about coworkers. They all have money, or are very good at looking like they have money, and few of them seem at all interested in the food, much of which is either untouched or merely picked at. That and the clichéd décor makes the restaurant look less like a place where people go to eat and more like a place where people go to talk, that just happens to serve food.  
  
An elaborate fakery, he thinks.  
  
As each second passes, he forces himself to not glance around nervously, to not check his phone compulsively, to not run out of the room and never come back. He knows that he doesn’t look at all out of the ordinary- another snob in a suit, sitting in the back corner, waiting for a colleague. He knows that no outsider would be suspicious of him unless he gives them a reason to be. And he also knows that showing how nervous he is would give everyone a reason to be suspicious. But the knowledge of what he’s about to do makes his skin crawl.  
  
Time continues to inch onwards. People leave in twos and threes, and are slowly replaced by newcomers. Each time someone walks in, the buyer’s stomach drops, only to feel immense relief when they sit down somewhere else. He gives in to temptation and checks his phone, trying to look casual as he does it, and grimaces. It’s exactly twelve thirty.  
  
Steeling his resolve, he shoves his phone into his pocket and stares at the wall, which bears boring wallpaper in an inoffensive shade of cream and several mediocre landscapes of an unrecognizable city. Some sixth sense makes his head turn, and his stomach plummets when he sees the man walk into the room.

This is it.

Fuck.

At a glance, the man doesn’t look out of the ordinary- a fairly tall man with long, dirty blond hair in a black suit, not at all conspicuous. But when he looks closer, everything about the man is wrong: his hair is tangled and visibly unkempt, not tied back or combed like most would do for a business meeting. He’s not wearing a tie, which is practically unheard of. He’s well-muscled, which isn’t out of the ordinary- God knows there’s lots of gym rats around- but his suit is straining over the muscles: the gym rats all have bespoke suits, or they get them tailored to fit, which this man obviously hasn’t. He doesn’t have cufflinks, and he’s wearing black sneakers, not dress shoes. And he doesn’t bother looking around the room after walking in- instead, he heads straight toward the buyer.

He doesn’t fit in, the buyer thinks. He stands out. Surely someone in a profession like his should be able to find out the right kind of outfit to wear… and then it hits him, a second later, that standing out is exactly the right thing to do. He recognises nearly everyone in the room- which isn’t to say that he _knows_ them, but he can put a name, a profession or both to most of the faces, and so can nearly everyone else in the room. When he’d entered, he’d looked at the few he didn’t recognise, assumed they were clients and hadn’t given them a second thought. If his contact were to walk in looking exactly like the professionals, then they’d all think that he was another banker or lawyer or accountant. They’d be curious about the newcomer, wondering if he was a potential rival or ally. They’d ask questions. But looking like a client ensures that nobody will care. It’s… actually kind of impressive.

The realization that it’s too late to back out now lands in the buyer’s brain so heavily he swears he can hear the thump. He frantically wonders what the response would be if he did try, but then reminds himself that these are not people he wants to piss off by welching on them after they’ve put in the effort to show up.

Well, maybe there’ll be some kind of way that it won’t go ahead. Maybe his… request will be too difficult, or just unfeasible due to unforeseen circumstances, or…

All right, probably not. No point in getting his hopes up.  
  
What scares him the most, the buyer thinks, is how _ordinary_ the man looks. He doesn’t look like a killer, or like someone who consorts with them. He just looks like an average guy you could pass on the street without noticing, a man who has an ordinary life and an ordinary job and could be someone you’d go out for drinks with, or go see a game with. He gives the buyer a casual smile, and the open, honest friendliness of that smile gives the buyer more chills than if it was the kind of grin one would see on the killer in a horror movie.  
  
The man sits down opposite the buyer and extends a hand. “Mark Haskins, Entropy Consulting,” he says in greeting. The buyer shakes his hand uncertainly, and realises that Haskins is facing toward the corner with the buyer opposite him, making it hard for anyone else in the room to get a good look at them or read his lips. Also impressive. “So, you’d be…”

He gives the buyer’s full name and the name of his company. The buyer isn’t at all surprised- of course they’ve done their homework. “That’s me.”  
  
“Good to meet you,” Haskins replies. “I understand you’ve got a bit of a problem.”  
  
The buyer tries to smile. “That’s right.”  
  
“Have you ordered yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Let’s do that first, then,” Haskins says easily. Before the buyer can answer, Haskins beckons over the waiter and starts ordering like he’s actually interested in the food. Left somewhat at a loss, the buyer limits himself to a passable-looking entrée and some decent red wine, though he makes sure to tell the waiter that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stay for a main meal, just to plant that idea.  
  
Neither man speaks until the wine has been brought and poured. Haskins raises his glass to his lips and sips, mulling over the wine thoughtfully. He nods appreciatively and sets his glass down. “Why don’t you tell me about this problem you’ve got while we wait?”  
  
The buyer takes a long pull from his glass and firmly sets it down, reminding himself that it won’t help anyone if he gets drunk. He barely tastes it, so focused is he on figuring out how to parse the request he’s going to make. Finally, he bites the bullet and asks. “Do you mind if I keep things a bit vague?”  
  
“Not at all,” Haskins replies smoothly. “Go right ahead.”  
  
The buyer takes a few seconds to mull over the phrasing, and then sighs. “OK, so… the field I work in is niche, but lucrative. It’s the kind of field where there aren’t many players, because there’s only so many areas- physical areas, that is- that one can work in, and all of them already have major companies there, so there’s not much room for new start-ups. That makes sense, right?”  
  
Haskins nods.  
  
“All right, so. There’s four major companies in England, and a smattering of smaller ones who handle the smaller, out of the way areas. The big four, we’ve all got our specific area, and everyone’s good with that, nobody really wants more. There’s not much conflict or aggression between companies, because for the most part there’s no reason for one company to go into another’s area. Right?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“And, OK, sometimes one of the smaller ones makes a move, but that usually ends with them either getting bought out or they keep to their spot. No real harm done. So it’s a pretty peaceful line of work, for the most part.”  
  
“I’m guessing something changed,” Haskins muses.  
  
The buyer nods glumly. “Before this year, the idea of one company taking over another company and their area would be called ludicrous. It’d take too much money, it’d be a stupid idea to begin with, it’d take time and effort and all the consumers would be suffering because it wouldn’t be at all smooth… well, that’s what everyone thought. Except that at the beginning of this year, the government made some changes that had virtually nothing to do with the entire field, but suddenly the area my company deals with was abruptly merged with the area another company dealt with, over many objections.”  
  
“You should probably give them a nickname or something,” Haskins says. “Just to make it easier on both of us.”  
  
The buyer considers this and nods. “Uh, call them… fuck. Call them company B?”  
  
“Works for me,” Haskins replies with a shrug.  
  
“So my company and company B find themselves sharing an area, and everyone goes completely batshit, because nobody knew this was coming and nobody knew how to deal with it. People were arguing over whether they should try a hostile takeover, or whether one company should buy the other out, or… well, it went on for a long time. Finally, after a lot of bullshit and arguing, both companies decided on a deal that would merge the companies without affecting much else, yeah?”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“Except it wasn’t that simple,” the buyer continues. “Because when you have two companies that are that big, you have to take so many factors into consideration. Who’s going to look after what place, which staff members will remain, who’ll be the boss of whom?”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“So just creating the deal has taken months and months of work by specialists. So much time and effort and money, and no matter how much ground we cover, there always seems to be a thousand little details we have to consider that take up even more time, just turning up out of nowhere.”

“I hear you.”  
  
“And we’ve had to pander to so many fucking people,” the buyer continues, getting heated as he gets further into the point. “Every bastard in both companies who worries about their job, every fucking customer who thinks we’re going to stop providing service to them because their cousin’s uncle’s brother heard a rumour at the pub about it. Every journalist who thinks this is going to be the story of the year.”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“Because the thing is, company B? They’re _really_ sensitive about the press,” the buyer says. “They’ve had some… mishaps, shall we say. Some very _public_ mishaps. Their reputation has taken a serious hit over the past year, because they fucked up _really_ badly. And now, they’re really cautious about doing anything that could make them look bad to the public.”  
  
“I think I’m starting to get an idea of the problem,” Haskins comments, sipping his wine.  
  
“In fact, they’re so cautious that we’ve heard that they’ve decided to back out of the deal if there’s a chance that taking it could get them negative press, even if it’s a slim chance,” the buyer says gloomily, downing his glass in two mouthfuls and refilling it. “And that’s where we come to the problem.”  
  
Haskins nods. “Hit me.”  
  
The buyer takes a deep breath and plunges in. “We have… an employee. A high-ranking employee, who’s been with our company almost since it’s started. He’s… well, he’s a bit of a bastard, to be honest. But just about all the higher-ups in my company really value loyalty. Employees get bonuses for staying with the company, and employees who’ve been with the company for long periods of time are thought of very highly. And they really think highly of people who were around in the good old days, so to speak. So even though this particular employee is a bastard who isn’t even good at his job…”  
  
“…he has the people in charge behind him, so he’s not going to get fired any time soon,” Haskins concludes.  
  
“Exactly,” the buyer says grimly. “Which is a problem, because he’s been making a lot of noise about the deal.”  
  
Before Haskins can enquire further, the food arrives. There’s a lapse in conversation for a few minutes, but once the waiter’s gone, the conversation resumes.  
  
“I assume,” Haskins remarks between spoonfuls of soup, “that he hasn’t made enough noise to destroy the deal yet?”  
  
“Not yet, no,” the buyer replies. “See, he doesn’t actually want to destroy the deal. He just wants to make it look like he will so he can hold it over everyone’s heads.” He takes another sip of wine. “If the… _fucker_ actually had a problem with the deal, that’d be one thing. We could talk about it, go through his problems, actually deal with it reasonably. He doesn’t have a problem with the deal. He wants to pretend he does so he can blackmail the fucking company for more money than he ever fucking deserved.”  
  
“Right, I see the problem.”  
  
“And it can’t go on,” the buyer says, stumbling over his words as he gets to the salient point. “It’s just… this is too much. He’s putting all the money and effort that went into this deal at risk, just so he can inflate his ego and get money he doesn’t need.”  
  
“You’re sure he doesn’t need the money?” Haskins asks.  
  
The buyer nods. “He’s well off. Got a wife, three kids, but I’ve never heard of them being hard up- and I would have heard.”  
  
Haskins leans forward, arms folded and resting on the table, all humour gone from his face. “All right, I see your problem. So now, I think the question is… what exactly is it that you need done? Do you want this employee to stop making noise and agree to the deal? Because we can arrange that. Hell, we could drop him on the other side of the planet if you’d like.”  
  
“You can?” the buyer asks, a little taken aback. Haskins nods, and the buyer considers it before replying, his voice solemn. “No, I… no. Not that. It’s that… he’s made too much trouble. He’s gone too far. I’m sick of dealing with his bullshit, frankly, and he’s said that he has no plan to retire anytime soon. God knows what kind of damage he’ll do if he’s allowed to keep fucking things up for everyone.”  
  
He sighs, his voice tentative, a man staring at the empty depths below him before he dives in headfirst. “I need a more… permanent solution.” His voice cracks on the last two words.  
  
Haskins sips his wine and nods, his expression unchanging. “Easily done.”  
  
“It is? I mean, good. That’s good,” the buyer blurts out, almost astonished at how easily his words were received.  
  
“It won’t be cheap, though,” Haskins warns him. “You need this to be quiet, right? So the deal won’t get affected. Yeah?”  
  
“That’s right,” the buyer says, his voice full of relief he’s not quite feeling.  
  
“We can come up with a sure-fire way to get this solved for you, no problem, but it’s going to take some extra effort and resources. Extra care.”  
  
“I’m fine with that,” the buyer says, voice becoming steadier. “I’m not the kind of guy who’ll cut corners.”  
  
“Excellent,” Haskins says with a smile. “Here’s a rough estimate…”  
  
He opens the calculator app on his phone and starts entering numbers, mouthing words under his breath. After a minute, he finally hits enter and hands the phone over to the buyer, who takes in the sight and nods slowly. “All right. I can… yeah, I can work with that.”  
  
“Good,” Haskins replies. “How soon do you need it done?”  
  
“Ideally, the deal will be closed in about a month or so,” the buyer replies. “Unless something happens to prevent or delay it. So I think I’d like your solution to take place before that. If he goes missing a day or two before the deal, then it’d look suspicious, but if you can take… can do it a while before that, and make it look inconspicuous, that’d work just fine.”  
  
“Well, we can certainly do that for you,” Haskins replies with an easy smile. “Now, to start with, there’s a few things I need to know beforehand…”  
  
  
  


Now:

As nights go, this is a pretty dismal one. It’s dark and rainy, the rain coming in spurts that arrive just when they’re most inconvenient, showering everyone with cold drops and leaving them in the humid air with no hope of drying off.

The man walking down the street isn’t having a good night. He’s already been caught in the rain twice now, thanks to his habit of keeping his umbrella in his bag, even after he’s been soaked once. He glances at his phone and stops at the sight of a new message, ignoring the people who nearly crash into him as a result.

He reads the message slowly, scans it again, and then sighs. His fingers dance over the screen, typing a short reply, and then he sends it off and checks his earlier messages, focusing on one in particular.

He doesn’t know the address it states, and he has to check the map again before he’s certain of the way, despite having checked it repeatedly for hours. He’s not far away, but he’s running short on time, so when he starts walking again, it’s at a fairly quick pace.

Half a block behind him, a woman leans against the wall of an old stone building, arms folded, eyes focusing on the man. She’s clad in unremarkable clothes- black jeans and a dark grey hoodie that hides her hair, the hood drawn forward to make it hard to see her face. She remains still as the man checks his messages, barely moving a muscle, until the man moves. As he walks away, she strolls along behind him and takes her phone out of a pocket. The man glances behind him a few times, but all he sees is a group of unremarkable civilians- talking amongst themselves, listening to music, staring down at their phones or up at the cloudy sky. Perhaps someone more perceptive or experienced might have noticed her, but the man sees nothing out of the ordinary.

More fool him.  
  
The man keeps walking, occasionally staring down at the map for reference. Behind him, the woman keeps up, stepping into the shadows whenever possible, and the man never notices a thing.  
  
And it works like a charm- by the time the man has finally reached his destination, he’s forgone so much as casually glancing around. Behind him, the woman has increased her pace until she’s only a few meters behind him, but he hasn’t noticed anything. 

Their destination is an apartment building, one that gives off an eerie vibe: despite its expensive décor and refined exterior, there’s no one in sight- nobody waiting in the lobby, nobody having a quiet smoke outside, nobody at all. The doors slide open without a sound as the man enters, and after a last glance at his phone, he enters one of the two elevators.  
  
As soon as the doors close, the woman walks into the building and makes a call. She says a few soft words into her phone as she walks into the other elevator, immediately stepping close to the wall so no one can see her from the outside.  
  
By the time the man’s elevator has arrived at the sixth floor, all trace of him and the woman has been removed from the security footage of the lobby, though he’ll never know it.  
  
There’s not a lot to see on the sixth floor- the open area where the elevators are, the corridors leading to the apartments, and a rather sad-looking pot plant that’s supposed to give the residents something to look at, along with another mediocre painting and a cheap couch. The man steps out of his elevator, looking curiously around him, and heads toward apartment 602, slipping his phone back into his pocket. 

But before he’s halfway to the door, the other elevator’s doors slide open. The woman strides out, walking fast enough that she’s on the man before he can react. She wraps her left arm around the man’s throat, pulling him off-balance, and jabs a syringe into the side of his neck. The man struggles against her hold, his hands clawing at her arm, frantically making stifled, incoherent noises, but to no avail. She drags him backwards, the now-empty syringe still sticking out of his neck, and knocks heavily on the door of 602 with her free arm.

The door opens quickly, and the woman half-drags, half-throws her victim inside, the sedative taking full effect seconds after he hits the floor. The syringe is jolted free from his neck, landing several feet away from him as blood leaks from the wound. The woman quietly shuts the door behind them and pulls her hood back, shaking her long hair free.  
  
Apartment 602 is vacant and unfurnished, except for thick curtains that do an excellent job of preventing anyone from seeing inside. The floor the unfortunate man now lies on has been covered with plastic sheeting, and several duffel bags have been placed in the adjacent room, along with an oversized suitcase. There’s only one other occupant, who stares down at the victim with eyes as cold as the grave.  
  
Almost in unison, they turn to stare at each other: a tall man with a dark fringe that falls over his face, clad in a black overcoat, licking his lips, and a tall, stunning woman with long, dyed red hair and an elated smile. Words pass between them, unsaid, until slowly, both turn to look down at their unconscious victim.  
  
The woman snaps a photo of him with her phone, and they get to work quickly, stripping the man down to his underwear. They search his clothes and his bag, removing his wallet, passport, watch and phone, among other things. Once they’re done, the man carries the pile of clothing and belongings further into the apartment while the woman unzips the suitcase and unceremoniously piles the man into it, bending him into an awkward pretzel shape to get him to fit. She takes both wrists and zip-ties them together, but the awkward position doesn’t allow her to secure the victim’s ankles the same way. However, she seems unfazed.  
  
By the time she’s zipping the suitcase up and pulling it upright, two men emerge from the depths of the apartment: the assailant, pulling his overcoat off to reveal a formal, long-sleeved black shirt underneath, and a man who looks like he could be the twin of the hapless victim. He’s wearing the victim’s clothes, holding his phone, the bag over one shoulder, but he doesn’t move to leave. Instead, the woman calls up the photos she’s taken of the victim and stares from one to the other, occasionally snapping out commands as the third man adjusts his appearance to match her demands. Once she’s satisfied that the third man looks as close to the victim as he’ll ever look, she gives him the nod and he leaves, a functional doppelganger.  
  
The third man isn’t an exact replica of the victim, of course. That would be an unreasonable demand. But dressed in his clothes, holding his phone, his wallet, his bag, his ID, it would be hard for anyone who didn’t know the victim _extremely_ well to pick up on the differences. And they won’t get the chance.  
  
Now alone, the man and woman share another long look, one that’s full of mixed emotions- pent-up rage, desire and bloodlust, among others. He’s constantly shifting, twitching, seemingly unable to stop moving until she breaks the silence, her tone brisk. “So are we good?”  
  
There’s a look in his eyes, one that starts off unhinged and seems to devolve as the seconds pass, moving through frenzied to outright feral in seconds. He looks up at her, gaze sharp, and then smiles, looking almost normal except for his eyes. “We’re _fucking_ good, Vick.”  
  
Vicky blows him a kiss and drops to one knee, starting to gather up the plastic sheeting. “Are you gonna help me, or do I have to do this all by myself?”  
  
He shrugs, doing his best to look nonchalant when she looks up. In response, she makes a disgusted sound. “Fucking _move_ at least, Jimmy.”  
  
Jimmy takes an exaggerated step off the sheet and bows. His step takes him close to a window, and he shifts the curtain aside to look out. Several stories below, the third man emerges from the building and gets into an unmarked, nondescript black car, which drives away as soon as the door shuts. “He’s off.”  
  
Vicky nods as she shoves the plastic sheets into an empty bag. “Good. We’re just about good to go. You got everything?”  
  
Jimmy scans the room and then checks the other rooms in the empty apartment, nodding quickly. “Yeah. When are the cleaners coming?”  
  
Vicky checks her phone. “About ten minutes.”  
  
“All right.”

They leave the apartment with the duffel bags over their shoulders, Vicky pulling the suitcase behind her, looking like any other couple on holiday. They take the elevator down to the parking garage and load the bags into an unremarkable grey SUV, though Jimmy practically hurls them into the trunk in his careless haste.  
  
Before Vicky can intervene, Jimmy strides past her and climbs into the driver’s seat. “I’m driving.”  
  
“Fuck that.”  
  
He gives her what, from him, passes as a patient expression. “Fuck you, I’m sober.”  
  
“In the state you’re in, you’ll crash into the first person who looks at you the wrong way,” she retorts.  
  
“What state?” he asks incredulously.  
  
“Jimmy, you’re _twitching_ ,” she snaps, looking meaningfully at him as he unconsciously shifts and jolts.  
  
He stares down at his hands for a second and sighs. “I need _something_ to do.”  
  
There follows a long pause, wherein Vicky does her best to not say something smart-arsed, and comes up with “Look, if you drive, you’ll get us killed.” She walks around to the driver’s seat and folds her arms impatiently, waiting for him.  
  
In response, Jimmy slides out of the driver’s seat and pulls her into a kiss so intense it borders on animalistic. His fingers dig into her arms hard enough to bruise, but she doesn’t wince or pull away. Instead, she holds him against her, eyes closed, kissing him back with equal fervour. 

They remain locked together for a while, neither of them willing to end the kiss, until Vicky’s phone buzzes loud enough to jolt them both apart. As she checks her phone, Jimmy hauls in a deep breath. “What’s that?”  
  
“Text from Mark,” she replies, a slight edge to her voice. “Apparently we’re wasting time and being _unprofessional._ ”  
  
Jimmy snorts. “Unprofessional. Right. Tell him it’s a distraction. Nobody’s going to think we’re anything but an obnoxious couple.”  
  
Vicky rolls her eyes and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Just get in the car, Havoc.”  
  
He climbs into the seat behind her and slams the door a little harder than necessary. “Fine. Whatever.”  
  
Vicky rolls her eyes again, but doesn’t respond. She pulls the car out of the garage and starts heading along the wet road, heading steadily toward the edge of town. Jimmy remains quiet, staring out the window, but as they get further into the trip, he goes from drumming his fingers on his leg to drumming them on the car door, to keeping his arms folded and his hands balled into trembling fists as his foot drums against the floor of the car. By the time they pull into the crowded parking lot of a garbage disposal centre, he practically leaps out of the car.  
  
Vicky manages to get out of the car before Jimmy can tear off alone, and reminds him of what he’s supposed to be doing with a pointed look. They’re soon making their way across the lot, passing a number of people- mostly employees- who don’t give them a second glance. Their destination is a building away from the main structure, one that’s very close to the huge incinerator that’s belching clouds of smoke into the dark, rainy night. The lights are on, but there’s no sign of movement from within, and nobody else is heading in that direction.

As soon as they get inside, they lock the door behind them. There’s not much to this building, really- a small cafeteria, a room full of lockers, a bathroom and a shower area connected to the locker room. The last two rooms are newer than the rest of the building, having been tacked on some time after the building was built. They get to the locker room and pause for a second as Vicky fumbles through her keys. The new bathroom and shower area are to the right, but they head left, to an unmarked, unremarkable door painted the same blue as the wall, one that’s rather difficult to see.

The only hint to an outsider that there could be anything out of the ordinary about the room is the large bolt above the lock, but once Vicky opens it, the hypothetical outsider wouldn’t see anything that would explain why such a bolt would be needed: the room behind the door is a smaller locker room with a communal shower area opening from it, empty expect for a few wooden benches- nothing out of the ordinary at all. Both the locker room and shower area are of much smaller capacity than the newer rooms, but there’s plenty of room for one man, one woman and their assembled luggage, including victim.  
  
Vicky locks the door behind them and takes the plastic sheets out of the duffel bags. Carefully, she spreads them over the floors of both rooms, taking care to cover as much space as she can. Once that’s done, she opens the suitcase and unceremoniously spills the victim onto the floor of the shower area. She drops to one knee, checks his pulse and glances up at Jimmy. “Still breathing.” 

Jimmy’s eyes are empty, lacking any trace of emotion or awareness, and he doesn’t respond. As Vicky gets to her feet, steps carefully around him and opens another bag, he remains still, staring into space, entirely dead to the world. He doesn’t move until Vicky carefully lifts the axe from the bag and slides the handle into his grip, and then he flinches, staring down at the blade as if he’d never seen one before. After a few seconds, he lifts the axe thoughtfully, weighing it in his grip. Eyes now filled with an odd light, he takes step after slow step toward his victim, walking as if in a dream, until he finally stands over the unconscious man, his hand gripping the axe so hard his knuckles have turned white.

For a long moment, he stares at the blade, seemingly contemplating its dull surface, and then he raises it above his head, head tilted. Without warning, he brings the blade down so hard that it slices clean through flesh, bone and plastic sheeting, striking the floor with a dull thud. Blood spurts from the wound, covering the walls, the ceiling, the plastic-covered floor, and Vicky, now seated on one of the benches… but mostly Jimmy. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed, inhaling the raw, thick scent of fresh blood, and then smiles. When his eyes open, they’ve lost all semblance of humanity.

He lifts the axe and brings it down again and again, striking his victim’s body seemingly at random, sending blood, chunks of flesh and bone chips flying across the room. He slams the axe into the man’s head handle-first until there’s nothing left but an unrecognisable, hideous churn of shattered bone and flesh. He stops for a moment, breathing hard, shaking hard enough that he’d drop the axe, were he not clutching it so tightly that his knuckles are white. But he isn’t finished- he drops to his knees in the gore, grasps the axe like a spear and drives the point deeper into the thoroughly mangled flesh, thrusting and grinding until all the frenzied energy seems to seep out of him, leaving him frozen, kneeling in a spreading pool of blood and gore, staring down at the corpse he made with blank, empty eyes.

But not for long. Vicky shifts slightly, enough to be audible, and Jimmy’s head turns slowly, his eyes locking onto her with laser focus. He rises, stalking toward her, leaving the axe behind, and she gets to her feet and slaps him across the face so hard his head snaps back. For a long moment, he doesn’t react, and then he stares down at his bloody hands, unspeaking, his cheeks chalk white under the scarlet red.

Vicky grabs his hands and steps close to him. “It’s not mine. Jimmy? Jimmy! It’s not mine. I’m fine.”

He looks up at her like he’s waking from a nightmare. “You’re all right?”

She grabs his face and repeats herself, slowly and carefully. “I’m _fine._ You didn’t hurt me.”

He stares at her blankly, as if unable to comprehend her words, and she sighs, forcibly turning him toward the mess he’d made of their victim. He blinks, stunned, and finally manages a weak “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Vicky snaps back. “Come on, we need to clean this shit up already.”

She turns away, starting to move toward the corpse, and he blurts out a worried question: “You sure you’re OK?”

She turns back and kisses him, tasting blood and smiling. “I’m fine, babe.”

He takes a deep breath and nods, reassured.

 

  
  
Forty minutes later, they’re standing in the transformed locker room. The plastic sheets and everything on them have been rolled up and stashed in the duffel bags and suitcase. They’ve both changed clothes entirely and thoroughly scrubbed off the blood in the showers, letting the spray remove most of the gore from the walls and floor. Now clad in clean clothes, they haul the bags to the door, but before Vicky can open it, Jimmy pushes her up against the door, kissing her with a new fervour. He tastes of blood and lust and euphoria, and she kisses him back with equal passion until her phone buzzes loudly, jolting them apart again.  
  
“Mark?” Jimmy asks after a second, his voice almost normal.  
  
Vicky nods, glaring down at her phone. “We need to finish up fast. He’s got company.”  
  
Jimmy scowls. “Oh, fucking _wonderful.”_  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
There’s no more talk after that. They head out of the locked rooms and take the bags out to the main part of the trash centre. A short while later, the incinerator is merrily burning the corpse and the evidence to ash, and Vicky and Jimmy leave, secure in the knowledge that the locked rooms are already being scrubbed clean of any leftover evidence, the incinerator is doing its job, and anything remotely suspicious in the leftover ash will be ground to dust and sent through the incinerator again, ultimately to be written off as nothing but bottom ash.  
  
It’s good to have friends.  
  
The trip back takes a bit more time, since they’re headed to a completely different part of town than where they started, but it’s otherwise uneventful. Jimmy sprawls out over the back seat and says nothing, staring into space, while Vicky glares through the windscreen and keeps glancing at her phone while they’re paused at red lights. Roughly halfway through the trip, they pull into a parking garage and park next to a squat white hatchback in a back corner. They swap cars, carefully transferring everything movable from the SUV to the hatchback, and leave the SUV with another friend, who’ll shortly have it thoroughly cleaned and the license plates changed. From there, they take the backstreets, sliding through alleys and lanes until they finally reach home.  
  
Home for them is an unremarkable house on an unremarkable street in an unremarkable suburb. Their neighbours are for the most part nice, civilised people who spend their days peacefully alternating between working, relaxing, and raising their children. They generally don’t make trouble or cause disturbances. And they have no idea what Jimmy, Mark and Vicky really get up to, which is exactly the way the trio prefer it.

It’s a two-storey house, painted a not too bland shade of off-white: Mark’s office, guest room, kitchen and dining room on the ground floor; living room, bedrooms, main bathroom and study on the second floor. Most of the ground floor is dark except for the main hallway, and as they walk in and up the stairs, they hear someone say with an exceptionally haughty tone, “I can’t believe you actually call this champagne.”  
  
Vicky and Jimmy can hear Mark’s sigh, faint as it is. “Well, you break into someone’s house and drink their wine without asking, you’re lucky it’s remotely drinkable.”  
  
“I didn’t say it was drinkable,” the first speaker says with disdain. “It should be reported as poison.”  
  
“And yet, you’re still drinking it,” Mark replies, his tone just snarky enough to annoy, without being too obvious.  
  
Before the first speaker can respond, Vicky pushes the door at the top of the stairs open, revealing the conversation in full. The living room is simply furnished: the TV and DVD player against the back wall, two long black leather couches- one opposite the TV and one alongside; the coffee table on top of the rug, and the bookshelves and mini-fridge against the other wall. 

Mark’s seated on the couch opposite the far wall, leaning back as if relaxed, but his tone and the way his left hand clutches the chair of the lounge shows just how tense he is. Their ‘guest’ stands next to the other couch, holding a glass of champagne and staring at it with contempt.

Jimmy ignores them both and barges past them to the mini-fridge. He pulls the door open, grabs a beer and nearly rips the top off in his haste to get it open, downing the contents in a few mouthfuls.

“Charming,” the guest says, not even bothering to hide her contempt.  
  
Jimmy flips her off and flops down on the couch next to Mark with a _whump._ However, instead of speaking, he stares straight ahead, lost in his own world.  
  
Vicky, on the other hand, stalks over to the coffee table and glares at the intruder. Their ‘guest’ is a woman in her mid-twenties, a haughty, disdainful woman with scornful eyes and long, dark hair. Her clothes are nothing out of the ordinary- a long black skirt, an unadorned dark blue shirt and a black jacket- but the look and design speaks of bespoke tailoring and the kind of cloth that costs more than the average person makes in a month for even a tiny amount. A handbag sits on the floor next to her- a simple design in black leather with the Prada logo displayed prominently. She holds the glass of champagne as if it’s a live toad, and glares back at Vicky. “Glad to see you _finally_ made it.”  
  
Vicky counters the glare with a sneer and an obviously insincere tone. “Oh, did we hold you up? Too bad. So sorry.”  
  
Before things can escalate further, Mark coughs. “Now we’re all here… you wanted to talk to us, Jinny?”  
  
Jinny gives him a look that could melt steel, and Mark rolls his eyes. “Sorry. _Agent_ Jinny.”  
  
The look doesn’t diminish in acidity, but she puts the glass down and folds her arms decisively. “Fine. I assume you’ve disposed of the evidence?”  
  
“What do we look like, amateurs?” Jimmy mumbles without looking up.  
  
Vicky ignores him in favour of replying in a brisk, irritating tone, her hands on her hips. “The apartment has been cleaned, the texts on his phone now read as having come from his mistress, all implements used in the disposal have been incinerated- as have the remains- and the shower block has been bleached clean.”  
  
Jinny nods. “And your substitute?”  
  
Mark checks his phone. “Currently en route to Moscow, where he will catch a flight to Athens and then to Bermuda, and then will be seen in the more prominent hotels and clubs for a while.”  
  
“Alongside this ‘mistress’?”  
  
Mark smiles. “Who is en route to Kos, and will then catch an earlier flight to Bermuda.”  
  
“Mmmm, so after they’ve showed off their passports in Bermuda for a week or so, I take it they then vanish?”  
  
“Into Canada,” Mark agrees. “Having ditched the fake identities. And then after a while, they come home.”  
  
“Leaving the deal to go ahead without further delay,” Jinny concludes. “Since any questions about the missing staff member will be answered by pointing out that he left his wife of twenty years and three children to run off with his previously-unknown mistress. Very neat. And I assume that anyone searching his things will find references to said mistress going back several years?”  
  
Mark gives her a level stare. “Of course.”  
  
Jinny glares at him for a second before sniffing. “Acceptable. I suppose.”  
  
“I’m so glad you think so,” Mark replies, giving her a fake smile. “Given that you didn’t even commission this job, so it’s none of your goddamn business.”  
  
Jinny gives him an unimpressed stare. “Ah, yes, speaking of jobs…” She checks her phone and nods. “In two days, you’ll receive an anonymous inquiry about your services. The sender will mention that friends in high places referred them to you. Later that day, one of my colleagues will arrive here. He’ll be working with you for the duration of the job.”

“ _Fuck that_ ,” Jimmy snarls, coming back to life instantly.

“Not happening,” Vicky says flatly.

Mark glares them both into silence and tries what passes for the trio as the diplomatic approach. “That’s not something you get to demand.”

Jinny gives all three of them a done-with-your-bullshit glare, such as one might give to a group of misbehaving children. “It’s something that’s happening whether you like it or not.”

“That’s not the deal,” Mark says coldly. “The deal is that we do jobs for you while holding up plausible deniability, in return for your protection. At no point did we agree to let you demand _anything_ of us, let alone force us to babysit one of your people. I’m not letting some arsehole in a suit distract me when I’m trying to do my job.”

Jinny raises an eyebrow. “For the record, I’m not the one behind this. It comes from a much, much higher source than me, I’m just the messenger. And… let’s just say that this isn’t a typical job. We’re not asking _you_ to work with him, Mark.”

Glances are exchanged. Mark whistles, Vicky purses her lips, and Jimmy says what all three of them are thinking: “Christ, who did this guy piss off?”

“The source I mentioned thinks that the colleague in question isn’t cut out to be an agent,” Jinny says carefully. “Specifically, the source thinks that my would-be colleague is a soft, idealistic idiot who has no idea just how bad matters of national security can get.”

“So your _source_ wants to make this guy quit by having him watch while we kill whoever’s name came up as a threat to national security?” Mark asks, his voice full of scorn.

“As I understand it, that is the idea,” Jinny replies with a sigh. “I happen to think that it’s an absolutely stupid idea, but naturally nobody ever listens to my opinion.”

Mark pauses. “What if this guy doesn’t quit? Like, what if he doesn’t have a problem with Jimmy axing the shit out of whoever it is, or whatever we wind up doing?”

Jinny shrugs. “Then we get someone who might eventually make a decent agent. Win-win.”

Vicky clears her throat. “I’m not seeing how it’s a win for us. We still have to put up with him, and we’re not getting anything out of it.”

“I did think of that,” Jinny says condescendingly. “Here.” She reaches into her purse and retrieves an envelope, which she hands to Vicky.

Vicky tears the envelope open and scrutinises the single piece of paper inside. After a few seconds, she whistles and hands the paper to Mark without a word. Mark takes it, hands it to Jimmy, and leans over his shoulder to read it.

“That’s… fucking good,” Jimmy says finally. “But I don’t like this.”

“It’s not bad,” Mark corrects him, sounding blasé. “And noted.” They exchange a long look full of unspoken words, and then turn to Vicky in unison. She nods, and Mark turns back to Jinny. “All right. Deal. But if this kid winds up getting hurt, that’s not on us.”

“Understood,” she replies with a sneer. “So now we’ve got that sorted, I’ve got better places to be.” She sets the champagne down on the table like she’s handling a live rat, hefts her bag over her shoulder and stalks away without so much as a farewell.  
  
As they listen to the slowly-fading sounds of her heels on the stairs, Vicky walks over to the couch, kisses Mark and Jimmy in turn and then flops down on Jimmy’s other side.  
  
Nobody says anything until the sound of the door being slammed crashes through the house, and then Vicky sighs. “I really hate that cunt.”  
  
“Don’t we all,” Jimmy says quietly, his eyes dark and furious. 

“So now we’re babysitting some dumbfuck wannabe agent,” Mark muses. “There’s no way this’ll end well. Why did we agree to this?”

Jimmy gives him an I-can’t-believe-you-actually-asked-that look and shoves the piece of paper at him. Mark glances at it and sighs. “Oh. Right.”

“I don’t know, maybe he won’t be that bad,” Vicky says. “I mean, anyone Jinny hates is all right by me.”

“She hates everyone, though,” Mark points out.

“Mmm, fair point,” Vicky muses. “So what should we do if he turns out to be another cunt?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Get rid of him. What else?”

Mark stares at him. “You mean…”

“No! Fuck, no. I mean, we send him back to Jinny and tell her _source_ to go fuck himself. We’re nobody’s bitches, and they need to remember that.”

“Without the aggression,” Vicky amends. “We can’t threaten MI5, you know that.” 

“I’m sick of their bullshit,” Jimmy mutters. “This is going to be a disaster. We’re not their errand boys.”

“No, we’re just the ones who’ll get hung out to dry if we put a foot out of line,” Mark says tartly. “So no, we’re not going to do anything stupid.”

“What if we-”

“ _No,_ ” Vicky and Mark say in unison.

Jimmy scowls and mutters something under his breath. For a few seconds, silence falls, and then he asks in an almost normal tone, “So what should we do now, then?”

Vicky and Mark trade a glance and smile in unison.

 

  

 

 

It’s several hours before anyone says more than a few words at once. They’re sprawled over the bed, tangled up in the sheets and each other, trading lazy kisses and caresses when Jimmy finally breaks the silence. “Why do we put up with her, again?”  
  
“Because MI5 is the only thing keeping us all out of jail,” Mark drawls, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
“I mean, yeah, but why do we put up with _her?_ ” Jimmy rebuts.  
  
Mark sighs, turning to look at him. “I mean, at least with Jinny, it’s obviously not personal. It’s not hard to tell that she just hates everyone.”  
  
“Doesn’t make her any less of a cunt,” Jimmy mutters.  
  
Vicky rolls her eyes. “As for why we put up with _her_ , well… what happened to the first one again?”  
  
“Flaked out after you strangled that banker and his friend,” Mark replies, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Vicky says, smiling at the memory. “And the second one… that was the one you tried to take an axe to, remember, Jimmy?”  
  
“He was the one who said we were keeping you around as a pet,” Mark recalls.  
  
“Fucking cunt,” Jimmy snarls, starting to sit up. “You should have let me kill him.”  
  
“Too complicated,” Vicky says, leaning over and pushing him back down. “Besides, he fucked off, so it worked out in the end.”  
  
“We’re still stuck with _her,_ ” Jimmy mutters.  
  
“Look, I don’t like her either, but we can work with her,” Vicky points out. “Yeah?”

Jimmy mutters something and flops back against the mattress. Mark rolls his eyes again, but reluctantly nods.  
  
“Good,” Vicky says flatly. “Because we’ve got bigger things to worry about than her. It doesn’t matter whether this guy’s a cunt or not, Jimmy’s right. We can’t let MI5 walk all over us.”

Mark holds up a hand and points to the back wall. There’s a mirror hanging from that wall, and as all three of them know quite well, a listening device firmly attached to the back of that mirror. Once Vicky and Jimmy each nod, Mark continues speaking. “What could we possibly do? They have all the power here.”

“I mean, we could-” Jimmy starts. 

“No, that’s too extreme,” Vicky says. “This is just a disagreement, not a fight.”  
  
“Exactly,” Mark says, choosing his words carefully. “First we deal with this guy, then we _politely_ tell M15 to back the fuck off. We’ve done a lot for them, they’ve always been happy with our results, so they should know that it’s better for them to keep us happy instead of pissing us off, just on principle. And I don’t care what they throw at us as payment, that doesn’t give them a license to just fuck us around like this.”  
  
“Seconded,” Jimmy says, absently winding a lock of Vicky’s hair around his finger.

“But we keep it civil,” Mark says again, loudly and clearly. “No point in jumping the gun. Yeah?”

Jimmy shrugs. “Yeah, fine.”

“All right,” Vicky echoes him.

“Good,” Mark says. “Now we’ve got that settled…”

The conversation dies off after that, but only verbally. They spend a while conversing in nods, gestures and mouthed words- a long, annoying way to communicate, but much better than the alternative. After all, with MI5 listening, there’s no such thing as too safe.

 

 

  
  
  
The email arrives promptly at midnight two days later. It’s a standard, tersely-written inquiry that matches Jinny’s description, and is otherwise not notable in the slightest. The trio scrutinise it intensely, but glean nothing else from the few lines on the screen, leaving them with no other option than to wait for the messenger.  
  
“This is fucking bullshit,” Jimmy says with his usual sophistication. “Like hell am I going to explain everything to this cunt.”  
  
“Yeah, we weren’t going to ask you to,” Vicky replies. “Mark and I will fill him in.”  
  
“Good,” Jimmy mutters. “I’m going to bed.” With that, he walks away without waiting for a response.  
  
Mark and Vicky trade a glance and sigh.  
  
The knock on the door comes late in the afternoon. Mark’s going over accounts in the living room and Jimmy’s passed out in the bedroom, so it’s Vicky who winds up answering it. Opening the door, she can’t conceal the look of surprise that appears on her face as she takes in the person in front of her.  
  
He looks so _innocent_ , she thinks. For a second, she wonders if she’s wrong and he’s actually some kind of genius at presenting false faces, but… no, it just doesn’t seem likely. He’s fairly tall, pale, short brown hair and ridiculous Lennon-esque sunglasses. He’s wearing business casual, a black jacket over a white shirt and black pants, a bag slung over one shoulder, and there’s an element of confidence, of _style_ there that makes her think that this is a man who cares a lot about his appearance. Looking at him, she understands why Jinny and the rest of M15 had such reservations about this guy, because he looks about as qualified to defend national security as Jimmy is to not swear in front of small children.  
  
Still, she supposes, maybe he has hidden depths. Or something.  
  
“Excuse me. Would you be Vicky Haskins?” he asks, his voice hesitant. His accent is clearly Welsh, which is surprising.  
  
Vicky leans against the door and folds her arms. “That’s me.”  
  
He extends a hand. “Morgan Webster. I was told you’d be expecting me.”  
  
She takes his hand and shakes it briskly. “That’s right. Come in.”  
  
Webster seems almost nervous as he walks in- and she wonders what he was told about them- but he visibly relaxes at the sight of what at least seems to be an entirely normal house. They even make it to the living room without running into anything crazy, for once.  
  
Despite the best efforts of Jimmy and Mark, the living room’s surprisingly not a mess. Mark’s sitting on the couch, gazing intently at his laptop, almost so focused that he misses Webster’s arrival. He doesn’t look up until Vicky clears her throat pointedly, but when he does, his reaction is restrained, for Mark. He takes in the sight of Webster with a flat stare, and then gives Vicky a long, pointedly-inquiring look.

Vicky folds her arms over her chest. “Mark, this is-”  
  
“Morgan Webster,” Webster says with a nod.  
  
“Mark Haskins,” Mark replies amiably. “So, you’re the agent.”  
  
Webster nods again. “That’s me.”  
  
“You’ve got the files?”  
  
Webster pats the bag slung over his shoulder, and then glances around. “I was told there are three of you?”  
  
Vicky and Mark exchange a glance, and Mark shrugs. “I’ll get him.”  
  
Vicky and Webster watch as Mark heads off. As soon as they hear the bedroom door open and shut behind him, Vicky turns to him. “Look, I’d just like to say sorry in advance for Jimmy. He’s… not exactly in favour of this whole idea.”  
  
Webster shrugs. “I’d be surprised if any of you are, to be frank. As I understand it, this was sprung on you rather suddenly.”  
  
“It was,” Vicky agrees. “But Jimmy tends to get a bit… vocal.”

Webster shrugs. “He can’t be worse than Jinny.”  
  
Vicky opens her mouth to reply, considers this and finally shrugs. “He can get pretty bad.”  
  
“Define bad.”  
  
Before she can reply, the door opens again. Jimmy stumbles into the lounge room and half-sits, half-falls onto the couch. He turns toward them, takes in the sight of Webster and barks a laugh. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”  
  
“Jimmy-”  
  
“ _You?_ You’re actually an MI5 agent? Fuck me,” Jimmy says, narrowing his eyes. “Though I guess it does explain why they’re trying to get rid of you. You do know everyone thinks you’re a pussy, so they’re trying to make you quit, right?”  
  
The palm of Vicky’s hand hits her face a second later. Mark sighs, folding his arms. “So much for cooperation.”  
  
Contrary to Vicky’s expectations, Webster doesn’t get upset or angry. Instead, he remains entirely calm, his voice cool and collected. “Yes, I do know that.”  
  
“Oh, good, because- wait,” Jimmy says, stopping abruptly. “Are you even fucking English?”  
  
“Welsh, by birth,” Webster says, still calm. “My family moved to England when I was a child.”  
  
Jimmy snorts. “Right, yeah, that’ll really help you blend in.”

“Makes for a good cover,” Mark muses, trying to lower the tension. “I mean, nobody’s going to suspect the guy with the Welsh accent of being an English secret agent.”  
  
“Do the Welsh even have their own secret agents?” Jimmy asks. “Or are they too busy fucking sh-”  
  
Vicky’s had enough. “ _Jimmy._ ”  
  
The tone in her voice makes all three men turn to stare at her.  
  
“Knock it the fuck off,” she snaps, holding his gaze with a glare. “ _Now._ He’s a _guest.”_  
  
“Look, I’m not stupid,” Webster says abruptly, his voice quiet but no longer calm. “I know I’m not wanted, either here or at HQ. I know you three are supposed to drive me away. Do I like it? No. But that doesn’t change the fact that we have a job to do. So shall we do it or not?”

“We’re doing it,” Mark says flatly, looking from Webster to Jimmy.  
  
“Of course we’re doing it,” Vicky adds.  
  
There’s a long moment where Webster and Jimmy lock eyes, before Jimmy finally nods. “Fine. Whatever.”  
  
“Good,” Webster says. He sits down at the coffee table, pulls several sets of stapled papers from his bag and starts passing them around. “Then let’s get started, shall we?”  
  
Vicky moves first, sitting down opposite him and picking up one of the sets, glaring at Mark and then Jimmy. After a second, Mark follows suit, sitting down at the opposite side of the table. He scans his set of the papers, intentionally not looking up.  
  
Jimmy stays where he is, arms folded, glaring ominously. Both Mark and Vicky know him well enough to know that he’s not being stubborn, he’s making his opposition to the plan felt. But he agreed to the scheme, and after several long, awkward seconds, he takes the empty seat.  
  
“All right,” Webster says smoothly, as though the last minute hadn’t happened. “Here’s the basic outline…”  
  



End file.
